


Lex Talionis

by DarthNickels



Series: Deific Decree [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (kind of? depends on how you read it), Ableism, Alternate Universe, Badly paraphrased Latin, Biblical References, Fantasy made up nonsense TV law, Gen, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Police Brutality, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Remix, Violence, What if Matt Was Much Much More Unhinged?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15422037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: Matt Murdock is forged in the fire of a fallen world-- not peace, but a sword.[[Remix of Season 1 of MCU Daredevil, veering into AU territory. Matt is more...unwell]]





	1. Agnus Dei

               Here’s a story: a long time ago, the Murdocks lived in a country on the other side of the ocean. Living was hard in the old country: the landlords owned the farms and the people made due with what little plot of land they had. For a long time that little bit was enough—until suddenly, it wasn’t. The people starved while food left the country in teeming ships, bound for richer tables. Babies died sucking at empty breasts, and the bodies were skeletons before they stopped breathing. There was no one to protect the people, and they died or they fled, never to come home again.

               If the runners were lucky, they ran to America, where no one is hungry. There are no kings who take the land and queens who turn their faces when the people cry out for bread. America has no king, it has a system, and the system works for the people—not the other way around.

* * *

                He is nine years old—before the accident, before the murder, before Columbia and the bar and the mask and everything that would come—he is nine years old and could never dream of all the things that are coming, but for now he is here, and in his memory he will always be exactly as he was.

               He is nine years old and he father is holding his bloody knuckles under the cold water of the faucet. Matt squirms, but his father’s grip is tight.

               “I didn’t show you how to punch for this,” Jack Murdock says. He is angry and he is tired. “I thought you knew better than to pull this shit.”

               “They started it,” Matt protested, “Malcolm is bigger and Nelson is a such a pussy—”

               “Don’t fuckin talk like that!” Jack yanks his wrist hard, and it hurts. “Talk like you gotta brain in your head.”

               Matt looked down, his eyes burning. Jack relented, releasing his hand and turning the water off.

               “You can’t do this, Matty,” he said, quietly. “You’re not some dumb punk. You’re _smart_. You’re so goddamn smart, but no one will give a shit if you get kicked out of school. You could be somebody—why would you go and piss it all away?”

               “It wasn’t fair,” Matt said, still looking at the ground. “They hit him for no reason. He couldn’t hit back. It wasn’t right.”

               His father was silent for a long moment, and Matt set his jaw, refusing to back down. He felt the grip on his wrist slacken, and his father relented.

                “Aw, Matty,” he said, sighed.

He knelt, his knees creaking well before his time. Matt looked up, and his father was smiling at him—he was smiling, but it was sad.

               “You’re a good kid,” he said. “You’re too goddamn good.” Matt swiped at his eyes with the heel of his hands, trying to pretend like he wasn’t about to cry.

               “Not everyone is as good as you,” Jack said, softly. “But that’s why we have rules, Matty—rules to protect people who can’t fight from people who can.”

               “They were stomping on him,” Matt said, “they stomped on his face and he was bleeding and crying and someone had to _do_ something—”

               “I believe you, but it’s not your job to make sure people follow the rules. You have to get a teacher, or a policeman, or—I don’t know—” Jack floundered, “find an adult, Matty. It’s their job to make sure this shit doesn’t happen.”

               “How come I just have to stand back and watch it happen?” Matt pushed. “Nobody was doing anything.”

               “Because the same rules that make it wrong for big kids to hit little kids make it wrong for you to hit Malcolm,” Jack said.

“It’s not the same!”

“Oh yeah? This kids’ got a glass jaw and you know how to feed him a knuckle sandwich better than anyone. Is that fair? You beating up on kids who don’t know shit? What if I wanted to take a swing every time somebody fucked me over? What if everybody was killing people in the streets over any fuckin thing? Hitting kids, little old ladies, sick people whenever _they_ thought it was OK—would that be fair?”

               “No,” Matt agreed, reluctantly.

               “Rules are for everyone,” Jack said, “that’s what makes them fair. That’s what makes this the best goddamn country in the world, Matty— everybody lives by the same law—money, no money, wherever you live, whatever. So no more fighting, OK?”

               Matt looked away. “Okay,” he said, softly.

               Jack smiled another sad smile, then stood, creaking all the way back up. “God made you a fighter, Matty,” he said, reaching out and tossling Matt’s hair. “Just like your old man—but you’re not gonna fight like me, OK? You fight with your smarts. That’s where all the money is, Matty. That’s the life for you.”

* * *

                In America, there is a law for every everything. There are laws about when and where to cross the street. There are laws instructing appropriate signage and traffic patterns at pedestrian crossings. There are municipal laws that regulate how fast a truck can drive through a residential neighborhood. There are labor laws that govern how long drivers should be behind the wheel before stopping to rest. There are environmental laws concerning when, where, and how a hazardous substance can be transported.

               These laws exist to ensure the safety of everyone.

               When these laws are broken, the perpetrators are subject to heavy penalties and fines.

               Some pay more dearly than others.  

* * *

                “Matty,” Jack says, and he sounds upset. His heart is going faster than it should—gets the blood up. “Matty, I’m gonna—” he stops, and Matt hears his heartbeat tick upwards— _boom boom boom_ in his chest, and there’s a smell like adrenalin, the way his dad smells just before he goes into the ring.

               But he’s not fighting today.

               “I’m gonna read you this,” he says, “and you tell me what you think its means, OK?”

               Matt set his book aside, making a mental note for later so he didn’t go fumbling for it. “OK. Let me hear it.”

               Jack clears his throat, still agitated. “It’s from the Roxxon lawyers,” he says. “It starts like this: _Mr. Murdock_ —that’s gotta be me, right—?” Matt smiles for his father, but he can hear the strain beneath the joke, and it makes his insides knot up.

               “Per—pursuant to your claim…” Jack starts, unsteadily, his mouth becoming tangled on words like ‘forfeit’ and ‘obligation’. Matt chewed his lip, listening to his father stumble through the letter.

               He felt the weight of those words settle like a stone in his gut.

               “You got anything?” his father asks, but Matt thinks he already knows what the answer is.

               “I think…” Matt starts, but his mouth is dry. He swallows, and tries again:

 “I don’t think there’s gonna be any more money.”

Jack says nothing. Matt can hear him breathing, hear how tightly controlled each breath is.

“I don’t—” Matt starts, and his father’s heartbeat skyrockets, pounding like a bass drum—“I think—I won’t have to go to the doctor anymore. I’m OK now—” his skin didn’t burn, and he could blink without hurting, but that was as much as he would heal. Matt had heard the doctor tell his father in hushed tones in the hallway— _no chance of recovering vision—no, no chance at all—so very sorry_ …

It was enough.

It would have to be enough.

“You’re going to the doctor,” Jack said, too calm for the adrenalin pouring through his veins.

“I really don’t—”

“You’re gonna have a doctor, and these bastards are gonna pay for it!” Jack slammed his fist on the table—Matt heard the woosh of air as it came down, but the force of the blow rattled him anyways. “Where the fuck do they get off? It’s their _fault_ —” he cut himself off, and stood very still—Matt heard the deep inhale of breath.

“I’m gonna make a phonecall,” he said, abruptly, then turned and walked out the door. Matt heard his retreating footsteps, rubber sole against cement, all the way to the end of the block, where he pulled open the bodega door with enough force to make the bells hanging in the top right corner jangle harshly. After a few minutes he stalked back, and Matt smelled the telltale whiff of burning tobacco.

Dad couldn’t smoke. He was an athlete. _Those things are poison, Matty, it’s dumb as shit to pay fifteen a pack for the privilege of dyin just a little faster._

He hears his dad at the payphone at the end of the block, yelling loud into the receiver, and maybe cigarettes don’t matter anymore because _they just dump toxic fuckin waste in the street and no one gives a fuck_ his father is shouting and then he’s crying, and Matt pretends to go to bed early so he can press the pillow over his head and try to block out the smell of tobacco and the sound of his father choking on grief.

* * *

  There is a law called the Americans with Disabilities Act, and it was passed because in America everyone has a right to take part in public life. Matt grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, where people broke the law all the time, and he thought he knew what it looked like: smashing a window and taking something, spray painting a rude word on a public building, gunshots that echoed from alleyways in the night.

               But there’s another kind of law-breaking, and it looks like this: no ramp, no handrail, no braille signage. It didn’t sound like a crack and a thump, but like “that’s too expensive” and “for just one kid?”. Matt had seen a blue-suited policeman hit a boy his age across the face with a nightstick for scratching the word FUCK into the window of a pawn shop, but somehow it didn’t seem like that wet crunch of baton against cartilage ever happened in the buildings far away where people decided not to follow this law. Matt never smelled blood on the collar of their landlord when he demanded more and more money to fix the broken rail on the stair to their apartment, even though Matt had already slipped on the ice and fallen off—a memory that made his cheeks burn.

               There are laws to make things fair, but as his father wearily reminds him life isn’t fair—at Roxxon the men wear suits that sound expensive when the fabric slides against the shirt as they say very sorry, such a tragic accident and then they get in expensive cars and never see a truck barreling down on them. They have children who are already accepted to Harvard and Yale and Columbia by virtue of the campus buildings that bear their last name. They don’t have to beg for books they can read. They will not hear whispers of “affirmative action” and “diversity pick”.

Money, Matt realizes, is like a punishing wave of water that can wash away walls and barriers. It floods the streets and anyone locked outside the house on the hill watches their homes disappear. The people on the top enjoy the view and the people on the bottom drown.

 _A rising tide lifts all boats_ , someone tells Matt. He hears on the news that Roxxon stock has gone up again, that it has recovered from the blip following the Unfortunate Incident. He hears this on the radio in one ear, and in the other his father is on the phone again, talking in hushed, strained tones.

* * *

                Here’s a story: a wealthy merchant approached Jesus, and begged to become one of His followers. Jesus told him this: give up your things, give them to those who have nothing, and live as we do. But the man couldn’t bear to do it: his love for the Word of the Lord was too small, his love of the material wealth and worldly pleasures was too great. Jesus reminds us: it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.

               Matt can read between the lines. He knows where the people who do not enter the kingdom of heaven will end up instead.  

               Matt wonders if anyone at Roxxon will go to hell for what they did to him—but the instant he had this thought, he is deeply ashamed of it. Vengeance was not his to take—punishment and forgiveness belong to God. He rolls out of bed, and his hand finds his rosary where he left it on the bedside table.

               He kneels, and prays for forgiveness.

* * *

 The money dries up. At first there was checks from Roxxon, there was gifts from neighbors and members of the community, and disability from the government, but the doctors and the specialists and the books are expensive and after a few months Matty is still blind but his story gets old, and the money stops coming. Jack goes out at night, on nights when he’s not fighting but he comes back with his knuckles bloody anyways. Matt sits up all night and waits.

“Where were you?” he asks, when his dad comes home just as the rest of the city is waking up.

“Don’t ask me that, Matty,” he says, hoarsely. “You should be in bed.”

Matt knows there are jobs for a fighting man in Hell’s Kitchen, jobs outside the ring: there’s good money being a club bouncer, coming home smelling like cheap spilled vodka and cigarettes. There’s jobs that pay even more than that, cash up first, big wad of bills that stink, when Matt takes one and runs his finger along the edge he feels the holographic strip—he remembers the portrait of Benjamin Franklin, and later he will recognize that smell when these bills are rolled up tight with one end jammed up a nose and the other hovering over a line of fine powder.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. “It’s too loud.”

Jack sighs, and cracks his neck. “What? Mrs. Martin’s dog?”

“Everything,” Matt admits, his voice cracking. “It’s so _loud_ , and it’s getting worse—”

“Hey—” Jack crosses the space in an instant, pulling Matt to his chest in a tight hug. Matt almost pulls away—too many smells, sweat-burnt coffee-laundry soap-deodorant-hard copper—but this is what his father smells like, and he leans into it.

“It’s not worse,” Jack tells him. “You’re just stronger, OK? You’re better at this.”

“At what?”

“You know—bein’ blind.”

“It’s not like I have to try,” Matt mutters.

“Hey—I’m serious.” He father pulls away, putting his hands on Matt’s shoulders. “This is all part of the plan for you.”

               “What plan—”

               “Look—you don’t see anymore, and now you’re gonna hear better, smell better, whatever—that’s all to make up for it,” his father explained, impatiently. “God’s not gonna shut a door without opening a window. He loves you, Matty. This is gonna work out.”

               “But I can’t sleep—”

               Jack shifts—looking over at the clock. “Bodega’s still open,” he says. “They got earplugs. I’ll go get you some.”

               “I’ll go with you—”

               “It’s two in the fuckin morning! Jesus, Matty, it’s not safe out there. You wait here for me, OK? You know what—go get in bed. You gotta go to school tomorrow.”

* * *

 The next day they go on a field trip to the museum, where they learn about Ancient Cultures. They visit an exhibit Matt will beg his father to take him to again—he’ll drag Jack to it a total of three times before it closes. It explains the Code of Hammurabi, one of the very first systems of law—or at least, one of the very first written down. Matt listens, with an earpiece that smells like greasy hair and grimy hands, over and over to the exhibit text, breathlessly. He waits patiently for his chance at the touch table, where he runs his fingers over a huge replica of the stone obelisk. A docent offers to let him hold another slab, and he hefts it, thinking how good the weight feels in his hand. The law should feel like this—heavy and unyielding. He runs his fingers over the carved symbols and he thinks he could learn to read them like braille—but he’d have to understand the ancient language first. Even so, he asks where the all-important phrase is, and an uncertain docent asks an equally hesitant curator, who guides his hands so he can run his fingers over it again and again:

 _An eye for an eye_.

Matt thinks of Moses going to the mountain, and receiving the Law on stone tablets. This was not God’s law, this was man’s law, and God teaches us to forgive those who trespass against us.

Matt remembers that Moses smashed the first set of commandants in anger, and he thinks he understands

* * *

 There is a man and his name is Roscoe Sweeney. He stinks like cigar smokes and the lingering traces of women’s perfume and women’s lipstick and women’s sex. He smells like money, like money that is filthier for being laundered. Roscoe Sweeney has money like a moat around his castle, running water the power of the Law can’t cross over, and all of Hell’s Kitchen is his kingdom. Roscoe Sweeney has so much money he can buy people: he buys women for himself and his buys men to do his dirty work, so that his knuckles are never bloody and split.

“I’m not your fuckin goon,” his father says, hotly. “I don’t do that shit. I’ll work the clubs, but I won’t—”

“Jack,” Roscoe says, and his voice is musical and poisonous. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through—you haven’t thought about your boy…he needs so much, you know…”

Matt’s cheeks burned again, and his father quietly asked Mr. Sweeney if they could take this conversation outside.

* * *

 It’s cold in the house—the landlord turned the heat off and Mr. Sweeney won’t give them any more money, because Jack says he only wants to fight in the ring.

It was warm at the church, and they stayed late after Mass, as late as they could. Matt is putting on both his sweatshirts to go to bed, when he realizes his father is waiting outside the door.

“Say your prayers before you go to sleep,” Jack says, his voice thick.

“I will,” Matt promises.

His father approaches him, taking slow, padding steps. He puts his hands on Matt’s face without announcing it, which Matt hates—but he trusts his father. Jack leans forward and rests his forehead against Matt’s. There’s whisky on his breath, but its faint—a nightcap for easy sleep.

“God loves you, Matty,” he whispered, heavily. “He wouldn’t test us if he didn’t love us.”

“I know, Dad,” Matt says.

“Well, don’t forget,” his father says, then releases him. “Go to bed. School starts early tomorrow, and you’re gonna be first through the door.”

* * *

 Here’s a story: Jesus went to the desert, and he fasted for forty days. The devil appeared to him in his suffering, and said: are you not the son of God? Wouldn’t you like something cool to drink, something good to eat?

And Jesus said no, because his kingdom was in Heaven with his Father, and worldly pleasures would not compare to the glory he would receive at the foot of the throne.

But the devil kept tempting Jesus to use his powers and the favor of his Heavenly Father to end his suffering on earth, to free himself from his fate.

Jesus refused.

* * *

 Jack will fight for Roscoe Sweeney but he won’t lose for him.

It doesn’t matter. The match is clean but the game is rigged. The house always wins.

Matt runs his fingers over his father’s face—bruised from the fight? Or was he beaten before he was shot?—and the officers try to pull him off but he screams that they let this happen, it’s their fault, and he screams and screams until a hand collides with his cheek and he hears a shouted “Jesus! You hit a blind kid!

               Matt’s eyes roll back in his head, and everything goes dark.

* * *

                Jack’s funeral is over.

               _Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per ignem_ the words rattle over and over in Matt’s brain, which is so numb and empty it can’t handle any other thought _. I am afraid, I am made to tremble, on that day of reckoning, when you shall come to judge the world by fire_ —

               Matt gropes his way through the graveyard, hands-first, cane folded under his arm—he wants to touch the stone, to feel it under his fingers, to try and feel something. There is a stone angel in the center of the churchyard, surrounded by the bodies. She keeps her face hidden in her hands, her grief so great she couldn’t bear to look upon the world of man— fallen into sin and death. Matt stumbles into her and reaches his hands up her shoulders to her neck, traces the flowing lines of her carved stone hair, the anguish carved into her lifeless face, and imagines the day a trumpet sounded, and she took her hands away and rejoiced to see the graves of her lonely vigil empty at last.

               Let the eternal light shine on them, O Lord, give them rest—

               “Ah, Matty.” Matt freezes at the endearment, the nickname only he father was allowed to use, wrapped in a voice he hated so much. “Such a shame. Poor little orphan.”

               “Fuck you!” Matt snarled. He grips his cane tight, wishing he could crack it against Sweeney’s face, make him bleed like his father’s face was bleeding when he touched it—

               “There’s no need to be testy,” Sweeney oozed. “It’ll be hard now, that your Da is gone, and me and the boys passed the hat—”

               “I don’t want your blood money,” Matt spit. His heart pounded in his throat, in his ears, in his head—how dare they try and _buy_ him—

               “I’d start sounding grateful, boy,” Sweeney said, coldly. “Or I might change my mind—”

               “You killed him!” Matt throws himself at Sweeney, but two pairs of arms stop him immediately—he twists and thrashes, but he can’t get free.

               “Just like Jack,” Sweeney taunted. “Didn’t they teach you to turn the other cheek?”

The arms holding him heaved, and suddenly Matt was flying through the air, landing at the foot of the angel with an impact that rattled his teeth. He lay there, dazed, and heard the crunch of footsteps as Sweeney approached him.

               “Here,” he sneered, “don’t spend it all at once.” Matt flinched as he felt the fluttering bills land against his face. Sweeney and his men left, and the distant echo of their laughter wormed its way into Matt’s heart and left a dark spot deep inside. He curled in on himself, feeling the hard, unforgiving stone against his back—he thought of the stone stele in the museum, written with the immutable word of the Law in it—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The punishment for taking life was death.

               The law was stone, but justice was burning fire that came from heaven.

               -- _iudicare saeculum per ignem_ \--

               Judgement would come to Hell’s Kitchen, and it would burn hot and bright and righteous.

               “Matt!” that was the priest, running outside, breathing hard from the exertion. “Oh Matt, did you fall?”

               Cold stone against his back and fire burning in his heart, Matt said nothing.

* * *

                “Roscoe Sweeney killed my father”, he tells the nuns at the orphanage. He tells each one, and then he repeats it each time they visit him. They warn him not to bear false witness, not to let his grief allow him to commit another transgression. They explain to him that the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace—

               “Roscoe Sweeney paid men to kill my father,” he insists. “I can prove it. I can—”

               One of the nuns is young, her voice and her hands are softer than the others’. She takes him from class into the hall, leaning close to his ear and whispering low: “you have to be careful, Matthew. It’s not safe to talk like that. Someone could get hurt.”

               Matt grips her arm tight. “He killed my father,” he repeats, hysterically. “They’re going to let him get away with it—”

               Matt is ordered to spend time in prayerful contemplation—alone. The third time this happens, he realizes he will not find any help form the nuns.

               Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, but Matt thinks that it takes so long, so long for judgement to come down from the throne of heaven.

               The other boys take a dim view of his crusade. “You’re fuckin crazy, Murdock. No one wants to adopt crazy.”

               “I don’t want to be adopted. I have a family.”

               “Not anymore, dipshit—” the words are barely out of the boy’s mouth before Matt’s fist shoots out—the misses the face but catches him in the throat, hard enough to take them both to the ground. Here Matt loses the upper hand, and soon there are fists raining down on him from all sides.

It seems like a long, long time before the nuns manage to pull the boys apart, screaming at the blood running down Matt’s face.

* * *

                Matt lost the fight, and although he admits to himself that he probably couldn’t win even a one-on-one match—not anymore—the other boys leave him alone.

               “Fuckin psycho,” he hears follow him through the halls, low hisses beneath the fall of his footsteps and the tap of his cane. He doesn’t mind, although his hearing his stronger than ever—he can hear his roommate call him a “freaky blind faggot” from two classrooms away.

               The nuns beg him to try and make friends, but instead he buries himself in his books, begging for trips to the library as often as the nuns will escort him. He can do it on his own, he has his own money and he knows the subway better than anyone, and he grates every time a sister insists on accompanying him out of the orphanage, but it’s all worth it to get a new transfer of books from another branch. He runs his fingers over the pages—braille books transferred from upstate, downstate, even out-of-state—and savors the escape.

He listens to the radio, turning it up to drown out the sounds of the city. He gets his hands on a pair of huge, over-the-ear headphones and listens to his portable radio well into the night and the early hours of the morning, when the sirens are the loudest. He goes to the roof of the orphanage to feel the cool breeze against his face and hear the AM station evangelical preacher drone about Satan at work in the world.

He hears the story break early morning, on the 5 AM news broadcast—Roscoe Sweeney was arrested in RICO charges. He skips classes that day, he goes to the newsstands and waits impatiently as the paper as being unpacked—then he buys one and demands the man behind the counter read him any articles about the case.

“Well, there’s a big picture of him on the front—”

“Is he in cuffs?” Matt asks, curtly.

“Yeah, they got him cuffed alright—”

Matt follows the case voraciously for the next week, but the news slows to a trickle—and then to a halt. The man at the news stand stops taking his money (“no Sweeney news today, kiddo—”) and Matt paces back and forth in the courtyard of the church, his feet walking the same path over and over again and his thoughts raced in circles. Things like this took time. It could be months. There would be hearings—

He goes down to the police station and offers to testify—“Murder one’s not on the table, kid,” the officer says, mystified. “It’s not even near the fuckin table.”

“It speaks to character,” Matt says, stubbornly. “He paid men to kill my father. I know he did—”

The cops kick him out and threaten to detain him if he comes back. Matt fumes, and he waits.

* * *

 The news breaks early one day—he’s up at dawn again, prowling the streets of the city, trying to find his way just by sounds and smells—

“Hey you! Hey! Hey—blind kid!”

“I have a name,” Matt snaps.

“Yeah, but I don’t know what it is, do I?” he recognizes the man at the newspaper stand—his internal map was off by about a hundred feet. “Hey, there’s a story in the Bugle you’re gonna wanna hear about—”

Matt runs and runs—he runs until he’s not certain where he is, until he doesn’t know how he’ll get back to the orphanage, and he doesn’t care—he stops in an alley that smells like stale beer and fresh piss and mountains and mountains of fucking garbage and punches the wall, again and again until his knuckles are torn and bloody—just like his father’s—

Sweeney’s charge dropped on a technicality. The DA receives a generous campaign donation from a shell company that Ben Urich traced right back to Hell’s Kitchen.

Business as usual in the city.

It was too much. The thought of Sweeney walking free made his stomach turn, and the smell of the garbage was too much and Matt vomited against the wall, retching again and again until there was nothing left. He turned and slumped against the wall, pressings his hands against his ears—it was too loud, the noises of the city were suddenly right there in the alley with him—sirens screamed in his ears, a thousand conversation were taking place right there next to him and he couldn’t block them out, dog barking— dog shit—wet dog—baby crying—milky smell—alarm clock—cigarettes—bottle breaking—rotting bananas—a million fucking TVs each one on a different channel—

“Our Father—” Matt started, weakly. “Our Father, who art in heaven—” but the sound of his thin, raspy voice was drowned out by the roar of the city.

“Help—” he called, his voice shaking. “Please, help—"

* * *

 They take him back to the orphanage, but the noises don’t stop. He lies curled in the bed of the infirmary, and the nuns take turns praying over him while he begs them to please, please sister, please shut the fuck up—

They want to exorcise him. Outside the door he hears the soft clack of rosary beads, the rustle of old pages, stiff collar against skin—

Tap, tap, tap—a cane against linoleum—

He knows that sound—

Stick tells him there is a war going on all around us—“a war not even normal people can see”. It’s a war between the force of light and darkness, good and evil, the wicked and the righteous.

“Do you understand?”

Matt thinks of angels and demons and his father lying in a pool of his own hot, sticky blood and answers an emphatic _yes_.

He is afraid of some of the things Stick teaches him, about chi energy and meditation—things the nuns seems to hate with a passion. Stick tells him not to be a pussy altar boy, and leaves it at that.

 Matt reflects that God hears us when we pray, whether we kneel and fold our hands our touch our heads against the floor or sit like the lotus and open ourselves to the infinite reality of His creation.

Matt talks to God in so many ways.

He wishes God would talk back.

 _God loves you Matty_ , his father had said. God took his eyes and but gave him more in return. God sent Sticks when it was too much.

Matt would listen, and one day he would hear.

* * *

                Matt prays every night. He prays that what he learns from Stick will serve God and the cause of righteousness. He prays for strength in the coming war, and he pledges himself to use that strength only in the service of a righteous cause. He prays to have an open heart for the sufferings of others, to embrace Christlike mercy as well as unrelenting justice.

               Most of all he prayed to be worthy of all he had been given.

* * *

                Stick left.

               Matt prayed and no one answered.

* * *

                Here’s a story: once upon a time, God and the Devil made a bet. Together, they would pile as many miseries upon one mortal as they could. They would take everything from him: his home, his family, his health. They would take and take until he was nothing, and at the end of it he was still a righteous man then his faith would be rewarded, and he would be all the stronger for the testing.

               Matt has nothing left but faith.

               He studies to strengthen his mind, he exercises to strengthen his body, and his builds his faith on the bedrock of nothing.

He is stronger for the testing.


	2. Qui Tollis Peccata Mundi

               Matt assumes living in the dorms will be a lot like the orphanage—maybe even easier, with only one roommate. He’s eighteen years old, well and aged out of the system, and when he walked out of the doors of St. Agnes he did not take a single phone number or forwarding address with him.

He has no one he wishes to stay in touch with.

He is pleasant, polite, occasionally charming, although he finds it distasteful— _ruthless doesn’t look good on us, kid,_ Stick had told him with dark humor. _Fake ‘em out. Give ‘em an act—that’s what they all want from you, anyways. Makes it easier to get what you need—and get out._

Stick left him but Matt kept to his teachings. He had been judged and found wanting, unworthy to join the ranks, but the war was still raging all around him and he had to be ready when he was Called.

Until then, he would have to find other ways to serve the fight.

 _I think it’s wonderful that you want to be a lawyer, Matthew_ , the nuns gushed and cooed. _And to work for the poor, an act of true charity…_

Charity has very little to do with it. City hall is rotten, the putrid smells of fear and greed and lust for power turn Matt’s stomach. The great stone tablets of the Law gather dust while chaos reigns in the streets. To pull it out, root and stem, he would have to descend into the beating heart of the beast.

But fighting on their field meant fighting by their rules…

 _Use your head, Matty,_ his father had told him, _not your fists. Not like me…_

He doesn’t talk about Roscoe Sweeney or Roxxon anymore—he pretends to be interested in the people on the street or the bus who feel the need to tell him how brave he is and other worthless platitudes. He pretends he doesn’t notice the terror all around them, the distant sounds of gunfire and broken bottles and screams in the night. He keeps his own company, honing his skills and sharpening his senses. Waiting.

 _A quiet boy_ , the nuns say of him, _but a good boy_. _Sweet. Kind. You would never know_ …

“You’ve come such a long way, Matthew,” the priest says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you put it all behind you.”

A lie of omission is still a sin, but Matt says nothing. He wonders about the person other people see, a person who is a stranger to him. They believe what they want to believe—they see what they want to see. It was what made him and Stick stronger, ready to fight the battles to come—

They couldn’t be deceived by their own hearts.

He’s been told he is handsome, and he is unsure what that is supposed to mean to him.

“Just a really, really, good-looking dude,” his roommate breathes, heart racing, temperature rising, and Matt freezes.

 _Uh oh, Matty_ , Stick whispers in his ear. _Is he distracting you? Do you want this sweet little thing? Do you wanna_ fuck _him? I taught you better than that, Matty. I thought I taught you discipline._

“Not that I meant it like, uh—” Foggy starts, lamely, and Matt politely excuses himself.

* * *

 

               Foggy Nelson, Matt learns, is soft.

All of the children around him are soft—and that is what his peers are, to his senses: unblooded children. He is astonished to hear them speak in class, meandering, self-important rambles without coherency or clarity. The library is filled with the incessant noise of them eating, playing games, or talking about pointless things—anything but studying. The war was just blocks from campus, the blood-dimmed tide was lapping at the gates, and yet the children drank and fucked and lived as though they would never be held accountable for it.

               Foggy is the softest and most childish of them all—soft hands, soft belly, soft heart. He chatters incessantly, pointless noise that makes Matt long for the targeted insults of the orphanage—at least those words had _purpose_. He loves sweet things, and is desperate for Matt to share in his offered treats, although Matt always politely declines.

               “Look,” Foggy says to him one day, “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, because I can’t ever not say the worst possible thing. Do you want to grab a coffee or something, maybe try this thing again? We’re going to be living together—” here, he is crestfallen: “Unless you want to switch…?”  

               “I don’t want to,” Matt said, “switch, I mean.” For all Foggy’s faults, his next roommate could always be worse. “We don’t need to start over.” 

               “Then let’s go get coffee anyways?” Foggy asks, hopefully. “Come on, I’m buying.”

               “You don’t have any money,” Matt points out.

               “I have my ways,” Foggy says, and Matt hears the suggestive eyebrow in his voice.

               Money flows through Foggy’s hands like water, as though there will never be a time of drought. “You can’t take it with you,” he says, easy and carefree in a way that seems totally alien to Matt. “Can I _please_ get you something that’s not a plain black coffee?”

               “That’s what I like,” Matt says, and it’s true—the syrups and sugars in Foggy’s drink make him gag. But there is something in Foggy’s manner to touches his heart—Foggy, who wants to give him something simply for the joy of giving, not because he wants to assuage his own guilt.

Matt thinks his presence reminds people of the devastation and misery tearing through the city only blocks from the manicured lawns of campus. It unnerves them, his scars are testimony to the terror of lawlessness that would one day consume the entire world. People felt very self-satisfied on his behalf as they passed the hat, as they make speeches to each other about how miserable and downtrodden he was—how their charity would uplift him. They very piously put a handful of dollars into his hand, and returned to the bacchanal.

Those few dollars would not absolve them of their riches. The fire would come for them in time.

But Foggy, who had loans and scholarships and still had to take third-shifts waiting tables to make ends meet, chose to spend his money on Matt’s coffee, a friend’s cracked screen, a homeless man’s lunch—

Foggy, who obligingly turns off his music or lowers the volume on his game—even with headphones—so that Matt can sleep, who reads by the glow of his cellphone when Matt absent-mindedly turns the light off to stop the florescent tubes from buzzing, who takes time out of his day to walk Matt across campus for appointments in strange buildings—

               Foggy, who is asked a party “isn’t it hard to have _him_ as a roommate?” doesn’t even hesitate to reply: “Shut the fuck up Chris, you wouldn’t know hardship if it bit you on the dick. Matt _rules_.”

               It’s Matt who guides Foggy home that night, offering a steady, sober arm for his roommate to lean on—fumbling slightly to hold back his shoulder-length hair as he vomits in a manicured lilac bush. Foggy is much too drunk to remember the night, either what he said or to ask questions about how his blind roommate successfully navigated him through the inhospitable streets of the city.

But Matt will remember.

               Foggy is gentle and sweet like a child—but where children are selfish he is generous, and where they are prying he keeps a respectful distance. He is too soft for the coming war—but it occurs to Matt that there have always been those caught in the crossfire, the ones that need protecting—the ones that will rebuild the world after the judgement of fire.

               He rolls Foggy onto the bed, and takes a moment to pull his blanket over him. He kneels at his own bed, listening to the soft sounds of snoring, and adds Foggy’s name to his prayers.

* * *

 

               He still goes out into the city, when he becomes too accustomed to the Babylon of campus life. He steals across rooftops noiselessly, leaping across narrow alleys and backstreets until he’s surrounded by broken glass and needles—the offerings of a people crying out to be delivered. He crouches over a seedy bar with a private back-room— _this is where it happens_ , he thinks. This is where Sweeney holds his little court—where he meets with his pack of murderers.

               He strains to hear the conversation over the din—but he can’t get any closer. If he did, he would easily hear their plans—and then what? Go to the police, who allowed Sweeney to reign unchallenged in the city? Go to the district attorney, who was bought and paid for? Go to the newspapers, which nobody read?

               He was powerless to do anything but listen as the city scream as she was ground between the wheels of greed and apathy.

* * *

 

               There are women—girls really, fresh from the bower, but they are beautiful. Matt had forgotten, in all his years shut in St Agnes, that not every woman was a nun. He had forgotten much and now learned even more— about the whispering waterfall of hair sliding against a bare shoulder, the slight creak of fabric fitted tight across the chest, the faintest sound of lipstick gliding across a painted mouth. This one smelled like talcum powder, rosewater, coconut oil, that one like artificial-sweet fruits, fresh-washed linen, peppermint—all of them with an undercurrent of sweat, chemicals, copper, iron, cotton—smells they tried to mask but couldn’t do away with. The run their soft, perfumed hands across his chest, trail their delicate fingers across his biceps, drag manicured nails across his throat and whisper in his ear to ask if he would join them someplace private…

               They are beautiful, but they do not tempt him.

               “Please,” he tells them, curtly. “I’m here with my friend.”

               “Oh,” they say, knowingly. “ _Oh_.” He doesn’t know what they mean by that, but they leave him alone.

               They whisper amongst themselves, and he chooses not to hear.

* * *

 

               Foggy has a woman—she does something to her hair that makes it smell burnt, and it sets Matt’s teeth on edge. She coos pet names and digs her long nails into Foggy’s shirt, and she carries the smell of chemicals and burning—

               “Woah, Matt, are you OK? You look like you’re gonna crack a tooth.”

               Matt smooths his expression and assures Foggy that he’s only thinking about finals.

               “It’s just,” Foggy confides in him, “sometimes I get the feeling you don’t like Marci all that much.”

               Matt hears Marci in the back of his mind: _Foggy-bear, don’t you know you’ll never make any money with all this do-gooder shit? You’re too handsome for Saint Murdock’s pro bono vow of poverty—_ and curls his fingers into a fist.

               “I just worry I’m a third wheel,” he says, evenly.

               Foggy laughs. “You’re an essential wheel, man! You’re the good influence!”

               Matt smiles thinly and says nothing to that. Every night he prays that Foggy will listen to him and not to Marci Stahl. He begs God to spare Foggy in the coming judgement, to see his heart and not the influence of the material world on his roommate.

               “I hope to God that’s true,” Matt says, and Foggy laughs again. 

* * *

 

               Whatever Matt thinks of Marci, she is intelligent and perceptive.

               “I know you’re in love with him or whatever,” she tells Foggy, impatiently, “but you have to see that there’s something _off_ about him.”

               Foggy shrugs her off. “Not everyone summers in Martha’s Vineyard. Some people have real struggles.”

               “Yeah, yeah, little orphan Matty, I know. You _really_ don’t think the fire-and-brimstone stuff is a little much?”

               “He just has his beliefs,” Foggy protested. “Against all the odds, it’s still a free country.”

               “Don’t be fucking obtuse. I’m not saying that because he’s _Catholic_. I’m saying it because he’s _creepy_.”

               “Oh, bullshit. Name one creepy thing he’s done.” Foggy demanded.

               “How about how weirdly possessive he gets with you? Remember when Matt broke Jacob’s finger because he’d been a dick to you?”

               “Matt didn’t—”

               “Fuck off! I saw it. I don’t know how he set it up, but he did.”

               “Well, maybe you should open your eyes and see that he’s fucking _blind_ , so that’s impossible, and furthermore—”

               “Don’t fucking ‘furthermore’ me, you don’t have the fucking grades for law school you fucking dumbass burnout—”

               “OK, this conversation’s over, and _furthermore_ —”

               Matt stands beneath their window, three stories down, hands folded over his cane and his listens to Foggy and Marci end their relationship. It is not the first time they have broken up. It will not be the last.

               It _is_ the first time Matt’s name has come up. He’s not sure how to feel about all he’s overheard, other than to be more careful next time he acts on Foggy’s behalf.

               He can guess the trajectory of this conversation, and doesn’t feel the need to listen to anymore. Instead, he turns and walks east, cane tap-tapping a quick staccato against the concrete sidewalk. When he returns to the dorm he circles it—once, twice—estimating how much time Foggy will need to grieve his lost love. When the muffled tears in their room taper off, Matt knocks on the door.

               “Could you give me a hand?” he asks. “I brought you something.” Foggy opens the door, and Matt thrusts the coffee towards him—it smells vile, just the way Foggy likes.

               “This is for you,” Matt says, although he hopes that would be obvious.

               “Matt,” Foggy says, hoarsely, and there’s a wet sound as he drags his hand across his snotty nose. “That’s—wow. What’s the occasion?”

               “I wanted to bring you coffee,” Matt said. “And I wanted to talk to you.”

               “Man, can it—wait? I’m just having a really difficult—”

               “No,” Matt says, curtly. He pushes past Foggy into the room, setting down his own sensible coffee. “I’m concerned that you won’t be accepted to the law program.”

               “Listen, I’m glad you’re looking out for me,” Foggy says, irritably, “but maybe I don’t even want to go to law school any—”

               “What we _want_ doesn’t matter,” Matt snaps, the words falling like a slap—he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He took advantage of Foggy’s stunned silence, and went on: “You and me, we don’t get what we want, because we are called to a higher purpose. You can’t refuse that call. People are counting on you.”

               “I think my parents will live if I—” Foggy stopped short at the look on Matt’s face. Matt took a deep breath, composing his next thought with care.

               “There are people in this city,” he said, with quiet, simmering anger, “who will need help in their most desperate moments, when they don’t have anything left but hope. Do you want to put them in the hands of Jacob Carter or Marci Stahl? Do you want to watch them sell their house to pay for an hourly retainer to feed Chris Bower’s coke habit? All their dreams crushed to powder, disappearing up his nose?”

               “That’s not fair—”

               “Nothing’s fucking fair!” Matt cut him off, harshly. “You are honest and kind and your life will only be harder because of it!”

               “Matt—”

               “You can’t leave the people of this city to the mercy of a bunch of narcissistic, self-important, spoiled children!” Matt shouted. “They _deserve_ better! They deserve to have everything you can give them, because _you_ are the only person here who actually wants to serve a greater good!” Matt thrust an accusing finger in Foggy’s chest.  “Are you going to turn your back on them?”

               _Are you going to turn your back on me?_

               There was a long moment of silence between them. “I—wow,” Foggy said. “I’ve uh—that’s quite a pep-talk you give, Murdock.” His attempt at humor fell flat, and Matt wondered if he’d said too much.

               “Jesus. You should do that professionally,” Foggy said, slightly muffled—he was rubbing his face with his hands. “OK, message received. Straight is the gate and narrow the way. _Jesus_. That was less of a guilt trip and more of a guilt _journey_. Fuck, man. Pull no punches. I’m gonna be pulling an all-nighter, I guess—”

               “I will too,” Matt said, indicating his coffee.

               “OK,” Foggy seemed to warm up to the idea. “OK, let’s juice up then, because I have a lot of questions about whatever the _fuck_ Friedman was talking about today—”

* * *

 

               The seasons turn, one into another, and Foggy starts to talk about a life after school—“fast track, Murdock!” he shouts, swinging an arm that Matt forgets he shouldn’t be able to duck. “Expensive law to school to high-powered internship to private practice fast-fuckin- _track_ , Murdock!”

               “Mmm,” Matt agrees. It’s his birthday, and he doesn’t drink—but Foggy begged him, _please Matt you only turn 21 once,_ please _let me buy you one teeny-tiny shot_ and ‘just one’ became two, then three, then four, then more and now everything was warm and pleasantly soft at the edges. His guard was down and for the first time since his father’s murder, he didn’t care.

               “Big money lawyering,” Foggy assures him. Matt is drunk but Foggy is approaching blackout in honor of the occasion. “Big money. You and me, the _biggest_ money. Partners—attorneys at law, Matt!”

               “Me?” Matt asks.

               “Yeah, you,” Foggy leans forward and clumsily puts his arm around Matt’s shoulder. “Listen, I know you wanna—wanna work for the City—Matt Murdock, New York’s most badass prosecutor, more fuckin—more sword than scales--”

               “Better not be working your way up to a blind joke,” Matt murmured, “it’s my birthday.”

               “Shut up! I’m sweet talking you,” Foggy stage-whispered, and he giggled. “But listen—I’ve been thinking—”

               “Never good—”

               “Shut up! I’ve been thinking—about what you told me,” Foggy went on. “About helping people—I wanna _do_ that. I wanna—get right up in their situations and _help_ them, you know? And if—if we had a—joint practice, private, we could do all kinds of shit—pro bono—discount—open up those prison doors, Murdock!”

               Matt frowned. “That’s not helping people. That’s—that’s aiding and abetting criminals. Murderers and thieves and—”

               “Jesus, Matt, you better not go to law school and not fuckin—know about the fuckin uhhh—assuming—presumption of innocence,” Foggy clapped him on the back. “You and me against the _system_ , Matt! People get locked up, and we give them a fair shot.”

               “Too many people walk free when they should be in jail,” Matt said.

               “Too many people are in jail when they should walk free!” Foggy exclaimed. “You think the people the cops bother to pick up in Hell’s Kitchen are all guilty? That shithole is dirty top to bottom, they’re not going after the big-time guys.”

               _They’re all guilty_ , Matt thinks, dizzily. _They watched Dad die and they did nothing_. But his heart’s not in it, not when Foggy is pressed so close to him he can feel the vibration of his voice in his chest.

               “The cops and the DA—they’re part of the rotten system, we gotta fight it from the outside,” Foggy is saying. “You know some fucking bookie keeps buying the election for DA? Its in the papers every fucking year man!”

“Mmm,” Matt knew very well.

“We can’t take it apart from inside the beast—we gotta—slay it, you know? You and me, Matt! Murdock and Nelson!”

               “Nelson and Murdock,” Matt murmurs. He leans against Foggy’s chest and closes his eyes.

               “Nelson and Murdock!” Foggy crows. “Sounds like money, Matt!”

               “I thought you wanted to help people,” Matt scolds, smiling.

               “We can do both!”

               “No man can serve two masters.”

               “How are you doing this when you’re drunk?” Foggy asks in amazement, and Matt laughs.

               “I wanna hear about it,” he says.

               “About what?”

               “Our practice. Tell me about being partners.”

               “Well, first of all, its gonna be housed the top floor of a very, _very_ expensive building in Midtown—”

* * *

 

               The next morning breaks with Matt kneeling over the dorm toilet, vomiting and shaking—only partly from the effects of the alcohol.

               _You’re weak,_ he heard Stick’s voice hiss in his inner ear, making his head throb. _You’re disgusting and you’re weak, this is exactly why I left you—so easily tempted—how quickly you stray from the path—_

               He retched again, hard enough to make tears run down his face.

               _Did it sound cozy? Playing house in a fancy brownstone, counting your filthy money while people starve on your stoop? Remember to put a coin in the cup for the poor little children before the truck runs them down—_

               _I’m not tempted_ , Matt thinks, desperately. _I don’t want that. I don’t_ —

               _I can’t make a sword with bad steel, Matty_ …

               “Hey, birthday boy,” Foggy’s voice startles Matt—he jerks, flinging his hand up instinctively.

               “Woah, sorry dude!” Foggy is loud—so loud—" I thought you heard me coming.”

               The sudden motion and noise made Matt sick again, and before he could answer he was leaning over the toilet and heaving.

               “Aw, buddy,” Foggy said, pressing a warm hand against his back. “Every man must pay kneeling homage to the porcelain god. Go on, give it back to Gaia—”

               Matt’s first impulse is to cringe again, but he leans into the touch—the spirit is willing but God help him, his flesh is _weak_ —

               But God loves us, and the angels love us, and shouldn’t we love what we fight for—?

               “Let me go get you some water,” Foggy says, standing. “And like, a big ol handful of Tylenol. You wanna smoke, Matt? Takes the edge off.”

Matt shakes his head.

“OK, your call,” Foggy shrugs, and the bathroom door swings shut behind him.

Matt will not compromise himself any more than he already has. He won’t drink again. He won’t take Foggy’s painkillers—he will offer his pain as penance.

“God loves you, Foggy,” Matt croaks.

He wouldn’t test us if He didn’t love us.

                He leaves campus for the city to pray for absolution, for direction, for a sign—and in seeking, he finds something he had not expected.

* * *

 

               “Matthew?” he turns, frowning at the voice. He remembered—

               Ah. Sister Rosalie. Soft hands. Soft voice. A warning Matt had not heeded.

               “Oh, wonderful! I thought you might be here!” She wraps her arms around her, and Matt accepts the embrace but can’t keep the distaste out of his expression. “You’ve grown so much…”

               “Why were you looking for me?” Matt asks, briskly.

               He can tell from the stiffness in her touch that she’s taken aback by his tone, but he doesn’t care. He feels dirty, grimy—the memory of his weakness makes his skin itch. He does not want to talk to anyone who cannot absolve him.

               “I have someone here who wants to meet you—” Sister Rosalie started, and a smooth voice interrupted her:

               “Ben Urich,” he offers he hand to shake, but Matt pretends he doesn’t know. The hand drops. “I’m a reporter for the Bugle—”

               Ben Urich. Matt remembers that name—the newspaper stand, the soaring hope and crushing despair.

               “I’m familiar with your work,” Matt says, folding his hands on top of his cane.

               “Really?” Urich asks, pleasantly surprised. “I’m glad to hear somebody’s reading it.”

               Matt smiles indulgently, but does not reply. Urich waits, then continues:

               “I was wondering if you’d like to meet with me for coffee sometime—” he starts, awkwardly.

               “For a story?” Matt asks. “Not interested.” He turns, ready to leave—

               “What about an expose?” Urich calls. Matt stops. He remembers the revelation of Roscoe Sweeney’s dirty money, raw sewage pouring into the open wounds of the City…

               He turns back.

               “Wait here, Mr. Urich,” he says. “And then I’d very much like to hear what you have to say.”

* * *

 

               “You’re awfully perceptive, Mr. Murdock,” Urich says, quietly. They’re seated in the corner booth of a bustling diner, loud enough to drown out their conversation to any ears but Matt’s. “Can I call you Matt?”

               “You may.”

               “My editors want a puff piece,” Urich says, without preamble, “heroic blind orphan grows up and goes to Columbia law on an academic scholarship. We can still do that, if you want.”

               The look on Matt’s face is answer enough.

               “Didn’t think so,” Urich says, and takes a long sip of coffee—still radiating heat, hot enough to burn. “You read my Sweeney stuff. I could tell. He walked on a technicality and your dad’s murder is still unsolved.”

               “Not unsolved,” Matt said. “Unpunished.”

               A creak of ancient vinyl as Ben shifted in his seat. “It burns you,” Urich said. “I get that. A little surprised that you wanna be a lawyer after all that—”

               “Not interested in talking about me,” Matt cuts him off, sharply. Urich sighs.

               “I’m afraid we have to. Roscoe Sweeney is a dangerous man, and you’re a loose end—he doesn’t usually leave those hanging.”

               “That man killed my father,” Matt replied, sharply. “I am fully aware of what he’s capable of.”

               “See, I don’t know that I believe that,” Urich went on, pitching his voice low. “Sweeney hasn’t run me out of town yet—but I’m on his shitlist for sure. If I were to _allegedly_ keep tabs on his cronies from time to time—”there was a rustle as Ben rummaged in his bag, and set a camera on the table. “Well. Imagine my surprise when I _allegedly_ spot little Matt Murdock, all grown up and skulking around on the roof of a known gangster’s hideout.” Matt puts his hand out and rests it on the lens—telescopic, good for long-distance surveillance.

               “This is usually where I’d show you the pictures,” Urich says. “But—well. Just take my word for it that I’ve got them.”

               Matt said nothing.

               “How did you even get _up_ there?” Urich pressed. “I looked for a fire escape and I didn’t see—”

               “Is this blackmail?” Matt interrupted, low and dangerous.

               “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Urich said, and Matt believes that, at least. “I just wanted to give you a friendly warning—knock it off. It’s not worth it.”

               _Not worth it_. Matt feels his pulse pound in his ears.

               “You can’t put a price on my father’s life,” Matt seethes.

               “I’m not asking you to,” Urich assures him. “But Matt—you’re just a kid. Your future is bright, man—Columbia Law on a full ride? You’re living the dream.”

               Urich’s not wrong—the last few years have felt like a dream to him, surreal and strange and often frightening. “Are you trying to bully me? Or buy me off?”

               “Neither,” Urich sounds desperate. “Matt—you could go on to do such great things. You could help a lot of people. But you can’t do that if they fish out of the Hudson with a bullet in your brain—if they find you at all. This shit? Trying to spy on Roscoe Sweeney? You’re playing with fire.”

               Matt begins to stand. “Your concern is unwarranted,” he says, briskly. “And if that’s all you have to say, then I think this conversation is over—”

               “Please!” Urich reaches out and grabs him by the hand. “Matt, don’t try and do this alone—if you know something about Sweeney—something that can get him off the streets—then you need to _tell_ me. I can make sure it gets to the right people. We can make this happen, you just have to—”  

               Matt withdraws his hand from Urich’s grasp. “I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Urich,” he says, evenly. “I can take care of myself.”

               He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ten-dollar bill. He slips it beneath his mug, and leaves the diner without another word.

               He is not followed.

* * *

 

               Matt is running again, flying over rooftops, throwing himself into the void between buildings and landing with catlike grace on the other side. Urich’s words don’t frighten him.

               They relit the fire inside.

               He makes his way down a drainpipe, slowly—pausing to listen for the distant snap of a camera shutter. He hears nothing—there is a strange quiet in this part of the city, as if even the rats are avoiding this place. He places his fingers against the cracked glass of a window, feels the steady vibration—voices inside. He turns his thoughts inward, slowing his breath—his heartbeat—listening—

               The scratch of pen against paper. Money being counted. Money changing hands. A smoldering cigar end crackling with the renewed vigor of an inhale, and exhale of foul smoke. A plan is being made—product is being moved—where—he needs to know where—

               “What the _fuck_ —?!”

               Matt whirls around—he was arrogant, he was clumsy—he was caught. How could he not have smelled Sweeney’s goon— _stale smoke spilled liquor old sweat fresh sweat rotting tooth_ —how could he not have heard his approach?

               “Fuck me, you’re little Matty Murdock,” Matt could hear the evil humor in the man’s voice. “You gotta meeting with Mr. Sweeney? All that money run out, huh—just like your daddy—”

               Matt’s fist hit the man’s throat, so he couldn’t scream—then his stomach, forcing him to double over—then his face—again and again—he slammed the man’s head against the concrete until he felt sticky, copper-smelling wetness on his fingers.

               He could kill this man—this man who knew his father, who could very well have pulled the trigger and taken his life—this man who smelled like blood and made his living in blood—murderer—whoremonger—flesh-peddler—thief—usurer—

               “—you hear that shit—?”

               Matt froze. More were coming—they would see him. He could take them, he knew it—there was divine fire in his veins, exhilarating, frightening, uncontrollable, he was a servant of the angels—

               He was tempered steel—

               He was the fiery sword—

               _You sure about all that, Matty?_   Stick asked, in the back of his mind.

               Matt shook his head. No—he couldn’t risk it—Urich was right, he had to be smarter than this, or he could lose his chance to _finish_ it, to purge this place once and for all—

               He ran—through the alleyways and back streets, back to where he’d hidden his cane—several blocks from Sweeney’s den, where he could still hear the commotion his work had caused, could still hear Sweeney’s hounds baying for blood—he shrugged out of his shirt, covered in fine copper-smelling mist, and wiped his hands clean before throwing it down a half-covered manhole. He clawed his way up a nearby fire escape, feeling the night air through his thin undershirt, and stood on the roof, panting for breath.

               He ran his fingers over his knuckles—split, bruised, and bleeding—

               Just like his father’s—

               He would wrap them, next time—and cover his face. He would have a plan—when the divine fire came to him he would be ready, ready to channel it, ready to put it to work—

               _Put me to use_ , he begged, raising his hands to the sky. _Wield me. Put me in the hands of your angels. I’m ready._

               And for a long moment, the city fell silent.

* * *

 

               Matt didn’t go back to campus. He skulked through the city, finding rest in abandoned buildings, eating from bodegas until his cash ran out, and then eating from the dumpsters behind the bodegas—often the very same food.

               Waste. Excess. Decadence. The city was teeming with it—and he had lived in the epicenter, in the gated city-within-the-city, where the children of wealth could enjoy their obscene luxuries without being reminded of their looming judgement.

               He didn’t belong there. He belonged here, among the least of the people, where the war was raging most fiercely—this was the path laid before him.

               His phone buzzed incessantly. He should have turned it off—there was no need to listen to the texts, distractions from his singular purpose— _hey man where r u? haven’t seen u in a while._

_u know u  missed class right?_

_r u mad at me?_

_hey if i did something im sorry_

_Matt? r u getting these ?_

_hey man i’m getting kind of worried can u call me?_

_dude they wont let me file a police report because ur an adult but like what the fuck, where r u_

_i just wanna know ur ok_

He should turn off his phone. The incessant ringing is only a temptation—the messages are a siren call to lure him back.

               The messages taper off as the days go by and a new number calls him—New York area code, but unknown to him. Finally, against his better judgement he picks it up.

               “Don’t call this number,” he barks.

               “Foggy’s in the hospital, psycho, where the fuck are _you_?”

               Matt freezes. “Marci?” he asks. He feels like he’s been sucker-punched. “How—?”

               “He only wants to see _you_ , you stupid prick. Get to Memorial General or I’ll tear your fucking dick off.”

               Marci hung up. Matt distantly thought he could appreciate her directness—but his thoughts were elsewhere. Surely this wasn’t part of the plan—

               Had he strayed—?

               Would others be punished for his misdeeds?

               What was he supposed to _do_?

* * *

 

               “Matt!” Matt’s gut twisted at the relief in Foggy’s voice. “You’re OK! Jesus, you fuckin _scared_ me, dude!”

               “There’s no reason to worry about me,” Matt said, “what happened to you? Are you sick?”

               “Nuh-uh, you first—what the fuck, dude? I tried to get in touch—”

               “I met with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while,” Matt said, flatly. “He was only in the city for a little while. I’m sorry—I lost my phone—I should have let you know—what _happened_?”

               “Oh,” Foggy said. “Oh.” He paused for a long moment, taking in Matt’s story. “Well, this kind of embarrassing. Since you were uh, fine the whole time—”

               “Foggy—”

                “I got jumped,” Foggy admitted. “Usually I’m more street-savvy. I’m totally fine—” Matt gripped his cane tight, resisting the urge to run his hands over Foggy’s chest, feeling for an injury that would warrant a visit to the hospital. “—Marci just made me go because I hit my head when they knocked me down. Majorly embarrassing, piss-poor performance during a mugging, big letdown from a Hell’s Kitchen boy—”

               “What were you doing, wandering around out there?” Matt demanded.

               “I was, uh—I mean—” Foggy danced around the issue for a few seconds, before blurting it out: “I was out looking for you.”

               “Oh, my God,” Matt said, softly.

               “Matt—no—do not make that face—I knew you probably weren’t skulking around Hell’s Kitchen, but I figured if something happened to you that would be the place for it to go down—Matt, please, you look like a kicked dog—”

               “This is my fault,” Matt said, his voice thick with grief.

               “No, no—” Foggy was waving his arms. “They didn’t get anything from me—I canceled all my cards, and I very cleverly have no money, so its totally fine. I’m just under observation for the head thing and then everything’s gravy—”

                “I don’t know what to say…”

               “You ditched your friend to bust in here and hold my hand while I convalesce, it’s all good,” Foggy assured him. “I shouldn’t have overreacted—its just, you know, it’s a big city and you don’t—um—you don’t see so good…”

               “You don’t have to be worried about me,” Matt said, softly. “I can take care of myself.”

               “I know,” Foggy sighed. “It was—kind of not cool of me to fly off the handle and think something happened to you just because—” Matt put a hand on Foggy’s shoulder and squeezed, gently.

               “No good deed goes unpunished,” Matt’s voice was barely audible.

               “Yeah, no kidding,” Foggy said. “Those guys were real assholes, too—I mean, they mugged me, so naturally, but they were _dicks_ about it. You won’t believe this shit—I was like, going around, asking people if they’d seen you, and I guess they heard me, because after they roughed me up they go—” here, Foggy put on an impression he clearly thought was humorous, but Matt found chilling in its familiarity:

               “ _When you find little Matty, tell him Mr. Sweeney says hello_.”

* * *

 

               Foggy would stay in the hospital another twelve hours for observation—Matt would be there when he was released, ready to guard him back to the safety of his gated city.

               If he made it back, he wouldn’t abandon Foggy again.

               The tape was tight around his knuckles, and his hood hung low across his face. He knelt before the angel in his father’s graveyard, praying for direction— _if this is your will, let me know._

_Please, give me a sign._

The city smelled like burning tonight—thick choking smoke that grew thicker as he grew closer. People were running—beneath him, in the streets, people were fleeing—

               A conflagration—

               A tower of fire in the sky—

               Matt stopped, standing over the edge of a building, feeling the searing column of heat before him—leaping flames, reaching towards Heaven.

               Fire in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

               “She’s a goner,” a cop was saying, far beneath him. “Every goddamn building in this city’s a fuckin firetrap.”

               “Real dirtbag hangout. Won’t be sorry to see it go. Sweeney in there?”

               “Yeah, and every one of his fuckin cronies.”

               “No shit! Serves him right.”

               “Real tidy. One clean sweep.”

               “You think they’ll investigate?”

               “Probably not. Witnesses heard shit, though—screaming, begging for help inside.”

               “Did anyone try and go in after em?”

               “Would you?”

               Something in the building gave way, and Matt heard the timbers groan and then fail—heard the earth-shattering collapse, and the roar of the fire, a wave of searing heat against his face—

               Tears running down his cheeks, dripping off his chin—

               “God loves us,” he whispered, and his words were born upwards by the radiating winds.

               “God loves us, Dad.”  

              

 


	3. Miserere Nobis

               Matt smiles more.

               He jokes, sometimes. He laughs at other people’s jokes. People take notice—they think to themselves that he seems less grim, more animated—as though some of the weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

               Little do they know his comfort is the memory of the tower of fire, long tongues of flame singing benediction to the sky—Michael’s spear hurled from heaven to earth, plunged in the devil’s heart—a sign he had sought for so long…

               He is humbled. He is filled with gratitude. He will not have to grope his way in the darkness, looking for the path.

               It will be revealed to him, like fire in the sky.

* * *

 

               “Oh, are you busy? Can I come in?”

               “Sure, just shut the door behind you. I’m just finishing the last of these…”

               “Ah, Con Law. How many zeroes?”

               “Not as many as you’d think, thank God—some real promise this semester.”

               “Oh? Matt Murdock’s in that class, isn’t he?”

               “Our local celebrity. He hates that everyone knows who he is.”

                “Well, you can’t blame people for being curious—”

               “Is that what you’re here for? To gossip about students?”

               “Guilty as charged.”

               “Oh my _God_ , stop that.”

               “So? Is he promising?”

               “He wouldn’t be getting a full ride if he wasn’t.”

               “I hear he’s…driven.”

               “I should hope he’s _driven_. He’s studying law at an Ivy, for God’s sake.”

               “The other kids call him ‘Saint Murdock’.”

               “They’ll be calling him the valedictorian a few years from now. Best to get those sour grapes out now, before graduation. God forbid a student does the reading and comes to class sober.”

               “Well, just wait for the class debates. I hear it gets…intense.”

               “Oh?”

               “Fire and brimstone.”

               “Someone should be taking this seriously. I welcome the fervor.”

               “You don’t think he’ll burn out? He takes a very hard line on this stuff, I can’t imagine he’ll appreciate seeing how the sausage is made.”

               “If he sticks it out he’ll be better for it. I can already tell this kid’s like a dog with a bone.”

               “Tenacious? Hmm. Well, he’ll make a good lawyer.”

               “He’ll make a _damn_ good lawyer.”

* * *

 

               He hears Stick’s voice in the back of his mind, when his thoughts wander—late at night, when the sirens wail, or in the quiet moments as he walks through the campus gardens to an 8 AM class.

               _What are you doing, Matty? Getting rusty? Getting soft? Is this how much it costs to buy you? Cheap date. Put out before the bill even hits the table—but maybe you like that, maybe you’d rather kneel on the piss-soaked bathroom tile so you can—_

               He shakes his head. Stick _left_ him. Their paths diverged. He wasn’t an angel.

               Matt had his sign.

               _Act like you can’t hear me, Matty, I know the screams echo all the way up your shining white tower—_

               “Foggy?” Matt asks, abruptly. “Do you want to go out tonight?”

               He hears Foggy close his book with a heavy snap. “Matt Murdock? Asking _me_ to take a night of?” he says, in mock-shock. “We are truly living in the end times.”

               “Let’s do Josie’s.”

               “It’s like I don’t even know who you are,” Foggy teased. Matt forced a smile, but internally the words made him cringe.

               It’s worth it though, once they’re dressed for the night, walking arm-in-arm through the city. Matt listens to Foggy chatter, describing the cheerful chaos of the city, and it drowns out the hissing condemnation—

               --at least, for now.

* * *

 

               He and Foggy live off-campus now, though they’re sharing a one-bedroom that’s somehow even more cramped than the dorm. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter, teaming basement-to-rooftop with rats, and Matt’s frankly not sure why they bothered to move.

               “Because we’re young and we’re dumb!” Foggy assures him, excitedly. “We’re two young upstarts, stepped off the bus with not a dollar to our names, ready to take on New York City!”

               “Foggy, we’ve always lived in the City.”

               “Yeah, but now we’re taking it on! Mano a mano! You and me against the world!”

               “Whatever you say,” Matt agrees, fondly.

* * *

 

               The flow from the faucet slows to a trickle. Matt frowns.  

               “Foggy? You think the water tastes a little off?”

               “Never touch the stuff,” Foggy assures him from across the kitchen. “But I don’t know, I didn’t notice anything.”             

               Matt sniffs the glass—there—something, almost imperceptible—

               “—these shitty buildings and their fucked-up pipes—” Foggy is saying, “you want me to put in a filter?”

               “I think we should,” Matt agrees. “I’ll buy one next time I’m out.”

* * *

 

               Foggy installs a pull-up bar in the doorway to their bedroom, with the noble goal of “doing at least _one_ by the end of the year”, but Matt ends up making the most use of it. He’s taking a break between studying, letting his mind wander as he goes through the motions—sets of ten, now with both hands, now with just one—

               “Wow,” Foggy breathes. Matt started—he’d been lost in his thoughts, and hadn’t heard the door open.

               “Don’t let me interrupt man,” Foggy says, his heart hammering in his chest. “I just, uh—forget how fucking strong you are. Jesus. I’m going to the corner store, you want anything?”

               “Didn’t you just get back?”

               “Yeah but I uh, forgot—shoot me a text if you think of anything--”

               He leaves in a rush, and the door clicks shut behind him.

* * *

 

               “Murdock’s kind of a jock.”

               “Yeah—gymrat for Jesus.”

               “Hah hah, that’s fucked up.”

               “It’s true, though. It’s kind of creepy—like he’s getting ready for the end times or whatever.”

               “I think we all know Saint Murdock is going to get raptured before any of us.”

               “Yeah, that will be our one comfort in the in post-apocalypse hell world...”

               “Hah hah, you’re so mean—”

* * *

 

               “And how does the law define duress in this context? According to the court, what conditions must be met? Anyone? Mr. Nelson, care to take a crack at it?”

               “Uh—an, uh, immediate threat of violence?”

               “Good! That wasn’t so bad, was it? If you’ve done the reading, then you have nothing to fear. Of course, Mr. Nelson has used a very telling choice of words…an _immediate_ threat of violence. A more generalized threat is simply not recognized, even if what seems like an existential danger can manifest in very real ways—I’m thinking here of ‘well, I need the money’ or ‘if I’m evicted my family will have nowhere to live’— but the law doesn’t recognize that kind of effervescent, contextual threat. Mr. Murdock, I can see disagreement on your face.”

               “No, professor. I agree with the parameters of the law in that situation…”

               “So you disagree with my critique?”

               “I do.”

               “Good! Dissent! Ladies and gentlemen we are _lawyers_ , and our bread and butter is arguing. That’s what puts food on the table. Mr. Murdock, will you be brave for the class and tell us why—with facts taken from the reading, if you please—why the court does not recognize our hypothetical as duress?”

               “If I may be frank, professor, being a coward is not a protected status. We are required to abide by the law regardless of our personal failings.”

               “Harsh! Very harsh! Would anyone like to contest that bold statement? Miss Stahl?”

               It’s not the duty of the court to evaluate individual morality, only objective facts.”

               “Very true—Mr. Murdock! Back in the ring!”

               “The law _exists_ to regulate individual morality, especially moral choices that infringe upon the life and liberty of others.”

               “I see a hand—tag in, Mr. Nelson.”

               “I mean, I agree with Matt, but the issue of what is and is not a matter for the court belongs to the legislature. The court can only evaluate each case within the law as it currently exists.”

               “Very good! Separation of powers is very much a limiting factor on the decision-making ability of the court. I’d like to thank you three for coming to class not just prepared, but prepared to throw down—but some of your classmates are not meeting my eyes, so I’d like to see a new crop of hands for my next question…”

* * *

 

               “Murdock’s a control freak, you can tell he wants to be a cop so fucking bad—” 

               “It’s a good thing he can’t see or he’d be out there beating the shit out of people for jaywalking—”

* * *

 

               Matt heard Foggy’s pen stop scratching against the paper a long time ago. He stood and walked to the kitchen, where Matt heard the tell-tale creak and hiss of a bottle being opened.

               “You want me to bring you a beer?” Foggy calls. The walls are thin in their apartment, there’s no need for him to shout—but that hasn’t stopped him. The neighbors do not care for the two of them, but Matt’s never been happier.

               “It’s a little early for that,” Matt demurs.

               “Sunday Funday,” Foggy counters. “Jesus drank wine, you know. Even went out on the town with his twelve buddies—”

               “None of whom will be sitting the bar for you.”

               “Wow! Casual blasphemy! I think maybe you _do_ need a drink.”

               “I want to get through the casebook first.”

               Foggy pulled his chair out and sat in it, leaning back up on two legs, making the wood groan in protest. “Where are you at?”

               “Crichton.”

               “God, that one is nasty.” Foggy took a long sip. “It’s—I can’t imagine having to get up and argue for _that_.”

               Matt shrugged. _Don’t sell your soul to Jeryn Hogarth, then_.

               “It really just—makes you question your faith in humanity, man.”

               “Having faith is perpetual struggle.” Matt murmured.

               Foggy leaned far back in his chair, making it squall in protest. He was quiet for a few moments. Then—

               “Can I…ask you something?”

               Matt pushed his glasses up, rubbing his face. “Proceed, counselor.”

               “Do you—” Foggy paused, considering. “Nah. Forget it.”

               “What?”

               “Nothing. It just seemed…insensitive. Forget I asked.”

               Matt pushed his book away. “ _You_ think it’s too insensitive? Now I’ve got to hear it,” he teased.

               But for once, Foggy didn’t tease back. He seemed to be weighing his words carefully.

               “Do you think…I mean, when you look at all the bad shit in the world, when you read shit like Crichton, or anything, do you think—like, as horrible as it all is, is there some purpose to it? Do you think everything happens for a reason?”

               Matt leaned forward, elbows braced against the table, and rested his chin on his hands. “You mean like my accident?”

               “Oof. _Yikes_. I absolutely did _not_ mean—”

               “I think things happen for a reason,” Matt interrupted, his voice soft. “But I think that reason is that people are selfish and greedy and cruel, and we live in a fallen world.”

               “Oh,” Foggy said, uncomfortable. “Brutal.”

               “Yes. But—” Matt stopped, considering his words for a long moment. He reached up and slid his glasses off his face, turning to Foggy—letting him see his scars.

               “That doesn’t mean there isn’t a plan for us,” he said, quietly. “It’s—difficult to see,” his mouth twisted at the irony in his words, “and sometimes—it takes a long time for us to understand. But we can—get _closer_ , to a just world. We reach towards the light, and every time we grasp for it we get that much nearer, and one day…” he paused, trying to gauge how much he should reveal:

               “One day, we’ll fight the last very battle, and it will be over. We’ll win. We’ll see _justice_ in this world.”

               He and Foggy were silent for a long moment. Matt’s mouth twitched upwards, and he tapped his cheekbone, at the corner of his eye.  

               “Well…not me,” he said, with bitter humor. “I won’t see shit.”

               Foggy barked with startled laughter. “Jesus, man! You can’t punctuate a beautiful speech with a blind joke!”

               “Turnabout is fair play, Mr. Nelson— you only punctuate every other sentence with one—”

               Foggy laughed, this time with warmth and real humor, and the scars at the corners of Matt’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. 

* * *

 

               The walls of their apartment are so thin, and in the night over all the racket of the restless city Matt hears soft, muffled sobbing from somewhere below them. 

* * *

 

               “There are fundamental limits to where the law will go in its pursuit of defendants,” his professor is saying. “It’s demonstrated pretty clearly in _Bowen_ —it’s the opinion of the court that the decision to prosecute for a crime that hadn’t quite yet come into fruition was beyond the scope of the law. Again, from the reading—and a reminder that you must, in fact, _do_ the reading— ‘Man being what he is, evil thoughts and intentions are easily formed. Fortunately, for society, most felonious thoughts are not fulfilled. The law does not punish evil—’

_Then what good is it?_

               “—'intent, or even every act done with the intent to commit a crime’. And here it is people, pay close attention: ‘The requirement that the jury find an over act proceeds on the assumption that the devil may lose the contest, albeit late in the hour’. Now, we turn to tease out exactly what that flowery language really _means_ —”

               Matt takes careful notes, quietly and obediently, but his hands shake on his keyboard—he can’t concentrate—he feels the braille beneath his fingers but in the darkness he perceives words of fire that read IF YOUR RIGHT EYE CAUSES YOU TO SIN, TEAR IT OUT AND THROW IT AWAY—

               “—the court is not in the business of punishing pre-crime, or even aborted crime—you can imagine the civil liberties nightmare that would ensue if temptation became a felonious offense—"

               IT IS BETTER FOR YOU TO LOSE ONE OF YOUR MEMBERS THAN TO HAVE YOUR BODY CAST INTO HELL—

               _Matty don’t go outside for a little bit, one of Mr. Sweeney’s friends is out there and I just don’t wanna see him right now—_

               “Matt?”

_\--Matt knows the smell metal and oil threaded through the stench of the man lurking in the street he has a gun, acrid gunpowder stippled on his fingers stains the muzzle stains his hands—_

“Again, they reemphasize, ‘the mere _intent_ to commit a crime is not a crime’—I sincerely hope you’re all highlighting this— ‘One may arm himself with the purpose of seeking and killing and may seek and find him—’”

_He’d heard running, heavy breathing and footfalls against the concrete, two men, one in flight and one in pursuit and then POP POP POP smells like blood no more running no more breathing—_

               “—yet if guilty of no overt act, commits no crime—’”

_His father’s face felt so cold and waxy in the coffin, the priest took Matt by the arm and tried to gently pull him away but Matt frantically ran his fingers over his father’s profile, his eyes sunken, his mouth set forever in a grim line—_

               YOU HAVE HEARD THAT IT WAS SAID: AN EYE FOR AN EYE, A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH—

               “Matt?” Foggy nudged his arm, bringing Matt crashing back to the present. “Are you sleeping? You know I can never tell—”

               “Sorry,” Matt whispered. He rubbed his face, his fingers came away damp with sweat. “I just—need some air—”

* * *

 

               He lies awake at night, with a pillow pressed over his ears, but he can’t block out Stick’s voice hissing a stream of words that run over on top of each other like tumbling rocks in a fast-moving river _another murder another rape and you just lie there on your fancy fuckin sheets and let it happen sit on your ass in school aren’t you a little old for that why don’t you be a man and get out there and fight god damn it—_

               Beneath them, he hears the muffled sobs—

* * *

 

               “We’ve got mail, Murdock!” Foggy tells him, excitedly.

               “Oh?” Matt slides his bag off his shoulder, letting it rest on the table. “Both of us?”

               “Hell yeah, both of us! Want me to open yours? I already know what it says—”

               “Don’t keep me in suspense,” Matt says, pulling out his laptop and opening it on the table. He hears the sound of Foggy tearing open an envelope, tossing it aside and pulling open the letter—

               “Fuck yeah!” Foggy crows. “I knew it! Remember those headhunters from L&Z that were on campus a while back?”

               Matt pauses. “Yes?” he asks, cautiously.

               “Well, listen to this shit— _Mr. Nelson_ —and one for you too, Mr. Murdock— _because of your excellent academic standing and superior performance, we would like to offer you an opportunity with Landman and Zack LLC_ — what did I tell you, Matt? High-powered internship fast fucking _track_! Both of us! Fuck! Yes!” Foggy paused—Matt could almost hear him deflating, imagined the slight droop in his shoulders. “Are you— _not_ stoked about this?”

               “It’s a great opportunity,” Matt said, diplomatically. “I know you worked really hard for this.”

               “So did you,” Foggy rebutted. “Are you hearing me? Did you, uh— _forget_ what Landman and Zack is? One of the biggest, most connected, most prestigious, most _expensive_ law firms on the island of Manhattan? Hello? Earth to Murdock, do you copy?”

               “I know,” Matt said, turned away from Foggy. “I know. If you want to take it, then…you should.”

               “By myself?” Foggy asked, incredulously.

               “You don’t need me to hold your hand, Franklin-Cum-Laude-Nelson—”

               “Did you get another offer?” Foggy pressed. “Are you—joining the Peace Corps? Going to find yourself in Tibet?”

               “No—”

               “Then what? What else could you possibly be doing except leaping at this chance?”

               Matt’s insides roiled. “I don’t know…” he started, uneasily— “I don’t know if Landman and Zack is where I’m meant to be.”

               “Why?” Foggy sounded stunned. “Because it’s—corporate? Dude, your degree says Columbia, in case you didn’t know—”

               “Foggy—”

               “You could have gone anywhere, but you wanted the _best_ school, and while you were there you practically _killed_ yourself to have the _best_ grades, and now you have the _best_ post-grad job lined up and you—don’t want it?”

               “I seem to remember someone told me we should be working to slay the beast—”

               “Is that what this is about? Dude, I was in _undergrad_. I also said everyone should have a rooftop hydroponic garden.” The chair scraped across the floor, and Foggy sat down heavily in it. He leaned against the table, focused intently on Matt. “Do you think they’re gonna—lose your soul if you work an office job?”

               “I didn’t want to be a lawyer to make money, Foggy—”

               _Use your brains Matty, not your fists, that’s where all the money is—_

               “—I want to help people—”

               _Sure you do, Matty, you wanna help people fish their wallets out, help them sign that dotted line, help yourself to that hourly retainer—_

               “Man, this is just an _internship_ ,” Foggy laughed. “They’re not going to make you partner the second you walk in the door—we’d just be paper-pushers, learning the ropes—how things work out there in the real world—”

               Matt knows how things work in the real world, below offices sequestered in glass-and-steal towers. Smells like sulfur, smells like blood, smells like sewage that pours from the penthouse and douses the people underneath—

               “—stay just long enough to learn the ropes—then you could work wherever the hell you wanted, man. You’d have the connections and the training to do fucking anything.”

               _Leads you right into temptation, doesn’t he, like a bull with a ring in your nose—_

               “—they’re just lawyers, it’s not like we’d be working for the Legion of Doom or whatever—just a big law firm that practices the law, which, if you recall, is what we went to school to get a job and do—”

_It all makes so much sense, doesn’t it, the serpent in the bosom offers the sweet, sweet fruit—_

               “—and when we leave, we could do _anything_ —hell, we could have our own practice,” Foggy was saying. “Just like we talked about.”

               _I want that_ , Matt thought. The admission was so huge, so towering, it seemed to break a dam inside him, swamping the other voices, quelling the chaos—

               _I want that so much—_

               “I think I’d like that,” Matt said aloud, fighting to keep his voice level.

               “Hell yes!” the air whooshed as Foggy pumped his fist triumphantly. “There’s a smile! Jesus! Matt, you work too hard to never actually enjoy any of the rewards. C’mon, man! Fucking _finally_ , you get to reap what you sowed! This is gonna be great!”

               Foggy was right—this was the right thing. He worked for it. He earned it. He would _know_ if it wasn’t right.

               Didn’t he deserve to be rewarded?

               “I assume this is all contingent on us passing the bar,” Matt pointed out. “So I wouldn’t celebrate quite yet.”

               “Killjoy,” Foggy groaned, but he reached over and punch Matt’s shoulder fondly.

* * *

 

               The offices of Landman and Zack are exactly like the picture Foggy painted—a tower in the clouds, glass and steel and echoing marble lobbies.

               Of course, there were no marble tiles or rich wood panels for the lowly interns—but Matt thought he preferred the cramped broom closet he and Foggy shared to the grand personal office of Parish Landman.

               He knew it was all in his head, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the thick, plush carpets there smelled like rot.

               “Everyone gets bitch-work.” one of the more senior clerks informed them. “Nelson, you’re filing. Murdock, you’re shredding. Welcome to the bottom of the shit-heap. If you don’t like it, think of all the poor bastards outside with their noses pressed against the glass—every single one of them would slit your throat to have your spot, and don’t you forget it.”

               Matt feeds the ravenous shredder while listening to Foggy grumble. This was the part of the job he minded least—it felt the closest to actual, honest work. Sifting through the case histories, producing statutes and precedent for Mr. Landman—it felt uneasily as though he were sharpening the blades of a meat grinder.

               Some cases he didn’t mind: navigating the byzantine realm of zoning law to pacify a squabbling billionaire, assessing the pre-nuptial agreements at the end of a high-profile marriage--  these were petty.

               Other cases—

               “What does Roxxon think they’ll get from me?” the man is frail, his voice is weak, nearly drowned out by the hiss of an oxygen tank. “They’ve taken _everything_ —I don’t have any money, Mr. Landman—no money, no assets, nothing to leave my children when I die—”

               He will die—sooner rather than later. His heartbeat is unsteady, weak and thready. The very last thing the Roxxon corporation takes from this man will be his life.

               “The terms of your contract were very clear—”

               Here, across the table, sits David. Across town, in a towering monolith of glass and steal, Goliath is idly counting money, running a thumb over crisp green bills. No stone can reach him—no stone this withered arm could hurl could do him harm.

               And yet he will take damages, carve more money from this dead man’s hide.

               “—we are sympathetic to your condition—”

               _Whaddya think that means, Matty?_ his father murmurs in is ear. _You know I can’t get a straight answer from these bastards and their slippery lawyer shit._

They take a break, and Matt politely excuses himself.

* * *

 

               Foggy wants Matt to be more social.

               Matt wants to keep Foggy away from these people, silver tongues and shark’s teeth in their mouths. They are future colleagues, they are future enemies—the line becomes so blurred Matt can’t tell who is who—

               “C’mon man, I worry about you sometimes. You’ve been putting in some crazy hours at work, all work and no play—”

                _And Jack’s a dead boy_ , Matt thinks, morbidly, and carefully closes his book.

               “A short break,” he agrees, reluctantly.

               The bar is deafening, hot and reeking—he and Foggy are squeezed in at an overcrowded cocktail table, their fellow interns bellowing and howling at the waitress like dogs—

               “Whatsamatter Matty, don't you dine with sinners?” one of them slurs.

               “Don’t call me that,” Matt snaps.

               “Forgive me, your holiness—” there’s a round of snickers from the assembled group.

               “Hey, fuck off—” Foggy protests, but he is ignored.

               “Saint Murdock,” one of them drawls, and the rest of them join in.

               “Hey I’m just kidding you—” there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Matt shoves it off. “Don’t fuckin push me man—”

               “Don’t touch me—”

               “You think you’re so much fuckin better than us—”

               “Woah, Jacob, not cool—”

               “Yeah but it’s true—” there’s a finger jabbed in his chest, “you could be fuckin—fuckin Mother Theresa out there wiping some junkie’s ass but you’re not, you’re ridin the fuckin Columbia gravy train—”

               “—Jacob shut the fuck up—”

               “—you’re fucking wasted, dude—"

               “—getting ready to take a big soul-sucking corporate job like the rest of us—”

               “—this isn’t funny—”

               “—because you think you’re so fucking great but you don’t give a _shit_ as long as that charity-case money hose stays on—” there’s hot, stinking breath on Matt’s face, and his pulse pounds in his ears—

               “—you’re not different from any of us bottom feeders, that money’s green no matter who’s sliding it in your g-string, you fucking hypocrite—”

               “C’mon Matt, we’re leaving—”

               “— _they can buy you just like they bought your daddy, that dumb fucking illiterate_ —”

               Matt hears the words in Stick’s voice—he’s not sure he hears them at all—but suddenly Jacob is on the floor and Matt is on top of him, fist curled in his shirt, first he’ll break his nose and make him choke on his own blood and then—

               “Don’t do this, man!” That’s Foggy, grabbing him from behind, trying to haul Matt up by his armpits—“Matt we’re all lawyers don’t fucking assault him Jesus Christ fuck fuck FUCK—”

               “I’m _nothing_ like you,” Matt hisses, through gritted teeth, and he thinks maybe Jacob has pissed himself—

               “Matt!”

               There are many pairs of hands pulling him off, dragging him out of the bar—out into the night, fresh air hitting his face, full of the screams and the sirens and the city howling in pain—

               “Matt! We gotta go!”

               Foggy’s dragging him down the sidewalk and Matt doesn’t know how he can stand to grip his arm like that, because his skin is so hot—

               The fire is inside him and he’s burning—

* * *

 

               “Matt,” Foggy starts—they’ve been sitting in silence in their apartment, Foggy taking drink after drink in an effort to calm himself while Matt sits at the table and waits for the storm: “would you tell me if something was going on with you?”

               “Yes,” Matt answered, his voice dull—he just wanted to get out of here, out into the city—

               “See, I don’t think that’s true,” Foggy’s voice is pitched high, growing louder and louder, “because you just fucking _attacked_ a guy for being an asshole—”

               “You heard what he said—”

               “YOU WENT TO LAW SCHOOL!” Foggy bellowed. “You _know_ it’s not illegal to be a piece of shit! You know what is illegal, Matt? _Tackling him to the ground_! That’s—”

               “I know the law,” Matt ground out.

               “Do you? Do you know what could happen if Jacob goes to the police? If he files a harassment complaint with HR? You could lose your _job_ , man!”

               “If that happens—”

               “How can you be such a genius and be so fucking stupid?”

               “Foggy—”

               “You worked so hard, Matt, and you have no idea—you could just throw it all away on one fuckup—”

               Foggy is wrong. Matt already knows how easily everything can go away.

_You’re so smart Matty, you’re so goddamn smart—_

                “It won’t happen again,” Matt muttered.

               The hollow promise didn’t pacify Foggy. He slammed his empty bottle on the counter.

               “I’m not even talking about your future, dude! I’m talking about your _safety_! What if we hadn’t been there to pull you off? What if it had been just you and Jacob and his shitty jock friends? You can’t _win_ that fight, Matt!”

               “You don’t—”

               “You can’t! You have limitations! One day you’ll pick a fight you can’t win, and they could _kill_ you, man!” Foggy’s throat is tight, constricted with tears. “Matt…”

               It takes him a long moment to get control of himself.

               “Matt,” Foggy starts again, “you’re my best friend. My best— _goddamn_ —friend, man. And I’m worried about you. Don’t fucking tell me I shouldn’t be, because I am. I can see that something is up with you, and now you’re acting— fucking— _crazy_ , and I just—” his voice grew soft, pleading.

               “I just want to help,” he begged. “If there is anything I can do, _please_ —”

               _Oh Matty can you think of all the things he can do for you?_

               Matt stood, abruptly. “I need some air,” he forced out.

               “Don’t fucking walk out on me, man—”

               But Matt ignored him. He stormed into the bedroom, pulled on his hoodie—the one with the mask and the tape crammed in the pocket—

               “Matt if you walk out that door I swear to God—”

               But Matt was gone.

* * *

 

               He came back into the apartment in the late mid-morning, after Foggy had gone in to work. No one saw him hold his knuckles under the kitchen faucet.

               No one saw the water in the sink run red.

               From that night on, there was no more crying in the apartment below.

* * *

 

               Bless me father, for I have sinned. I struck two men in anger…

* * *

 

               Matt avoids Foggy, taking the day to rest and the night to be out in the city, chasing the sound of her cries. He returns in the early hours of the morning, and humbly sets his offering next to Foggy’s plate.

               “You think a fancy coffee will buy me off?” Foggy asks, flatly.

               Matt says nothing.

               “Well,” Foggy breaks first, “you might be right.” He picks it up, examining the barista’s code scribbled on the side.

               “Jacob was too drunk to actually remember what happened, and everyone else seems to think it will just blow over. So—yeah. There’s that.” Matt hears him take a long sip. “I can’t believe you memorized my order.”

               “How could I forget? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

               Foggy tries to remain stern, but he dissolves into relieved laughter. “God, you’re an asshole,” he says. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you. If it makes you feel better, it kind of sucked for me too. I’m not used to being the Rules Guy in this house. Role reversal. It was a weird feeling, dude.”

               “You did a good job,” Matt said. “I—needed to hear that.” He sits at the table, nursing his own coffee. Outside the city is waking up, the screams of terror giving way to the slow rumble of production as New York got ready to go to work.

               “I’m glad you’re watching my back,” Matt said, quietly.

               “Somebody has to.”

               Matt sighed. “I heard it the minute I said it.”

               “I wouldn’t swing at them if you didn’t tee them up for me!” Foggy shot back. “And like, while we’re admitting we were wrong, it did actually kind of rule that you were going to try and kick Jacob’s ass. It just goes to show that you can take the boy out of Hell’s Kitchen, but you can _not_ take the Hell’s Kitchen out of the boy! It was objectively cool. See? Fun Foggy is _back_. Man, I hated being the rules guy! It sucked! How do you do it all the time?”

               “ ‘If I righteous man turns from his righteousness and commits iniquity, and I lay a stumbling-block before him, he shall die’.”

               “I should have guessed,” Foggy took another long sip of his coffee. “And like, again, in _retrospect_ you throwing down is a memory I will cherish forever, but please don’t do anything like that ever again. For the sake of my sanity, if not all those other things I mentioned when I was screaming at you.”

               “I won’t,” Matt lies. And then, he lies again: “I promise.” 

* * *

 

               “Did you see his face?”

               “Fucking psycho—”

               “Jacob deserved it, though—”

               “Yeah he did but man, that was _spooky_ —”

               “He was going to kill him—”

               “He’s lucky Jacob won’t admit he almost got his ass kicked by a blind guy—”

               “Jacob’s lucky to have all his teeth in his mouth…”

* * *

 

               The others whisper behind his back—they huddle in hallways, as if finding safety in numbers, they fall conspicuously silent as he walks by. He can hear them all the same, the hissing whispers following him like a dark wind.

               They feel the tension in the air—they sense the gathering storm, but can’t see it in the sky. It’s within him, the thunderheads pressing against his skin, threatening to spill out of his mouth when he speaks.

               “Matt, you gotta sleep more,” Foggy is saying. Matt nods.

               “Mm. OK.”

               “I’m serious, dude, you look like shit.”

                “Thanks, Fog.”

               “I’m only saying it because I care.”

               “I know you do.”

* * *

 

               They’re taking a statement from one of the Roxxon employees—a scientist, shaping up to be their star witness. Matt is bringing an armful of paperwork for Mr. Landman, he opens the door—

               Stops—

               “Murdock? Bring that here, please.”

               “Yessir,” he says, with a deference he doesn’t feel. He holds his cane out in front of him, tap-tap, tap-tap, he swings as close as he dares past their witness, brushing past his white coat, stirring the air—

               He knows that smell—

               _Foggy? You think the water tastes a little off?_

               “Over here,” Mr. Landman says, impatiently. Matt moves stiffly, dropping the papers with an indelicate thump. He knows they’re looking at him. He doesn’t care. This isn’t like the faint taste of the water in their apartment, the one that makes everyone who uses the basement laundry smell faintly artificial. This is immediate, sharp, strong—fresh.

               From the source—

               “That will be _all_ , Murdock, thank you.”

* * *

 

               It’s so easy to slip into a disused storage closet, pull the cover of the vent and make his way towards the conference room. He doesn’t have to get close, he can hear perfectly well—

               “Allegations untrue…my research will prove…”

               The man’s heart races, the incessant gallop of a liar.

               Matt knows.

               And Landman knows, too. The both of them—scheming—

               “—absolutely no proof of a leak, or any impropriety in the Roxxon Corporation’s waste disposal methods—tests of city water are inconclusive—absolutely no research to back up the claims of harms to human health—”

               Poison.

               -- _they just dump toxic fuckin waste in the street and no one gives a fuck—_

“I just have to ask again for your discretion in this case—involvement from the DEC could really set us back, and our work—”

               “I assure you, our family at Landman and Zack take the privacy of our clients very seriously—we have absolutely no leaks when it comes to disposal of sensitive information—”

               Matt froze—time seemed suspended, for a long moment, and all his heard was his own heart hammering in his ears, his stomach constricting—

               _Murdock, you’re shredding_ —

               He hadn’t thought to run his fingers along the printed word, to feel for familiar shapes—

               They didn’t know he could—

               They used him—

               He let them—

               He opened his mouth but he couldn’t breathe, the numbness of shock gave way to the heat and the roar—

* * *

 

               The others had left long ago, and Matt was alone in the office—he tore through files, frantically, barely taking time to understand one document before moving to another, but he saw the patterns, even if he did not grasp the particulars—

               Money moving, a shell game, in the country and out—

               Out in the streets, cash delivered with no questions asked—

               Laws bent and broken and swept neatly out of sight—

               All of it, all of it was diseased and riddled with rot down to its very bones. His breath came quickly, sweat plastered his hair to his head. He knew where the cameras were, what they saw and what they didn’t—he moved easily between the offices, finding evidence of corruption, collusion—

               _What did I tell you, Matty? How’s that fancy degree working for you now? You really think your shit doesn’t stink, but you’re just as filthy as the rest of them_ —

               He was right—God help him, Stick had been right all along—about everything—about him—he was in the bathroom now and he vomited in the sink, he was stained, inside and outside he was _vile_ —

               _You’re a mess, Matty. Clean yourself up. The fine, upstanding folks of this jackal’s nest will be back at work soon enough_.

               Yes, Matt realized. Yes they would. And he—

               It would be so easy to tear the wiring out of the alarms—

               The suppression system—

               To find the things in this building that _burned_ —

               Here they were, far beneath him, trailing into the building in the pre-dawn gloom, good little servants of the dark hand of greed, he could rain down judgement upon then, the smoke would take their ashes up, winds that could carry them sanctified back to the place whence they came—

               Below, one heartbeat he knew—

               _Will thou also sweep away the righteous with the wicked?_

               Friendly good mornings, smells like still-damp hair, lingering trace of shampoo, smells like a tie frantically ironed, slightly singed—

               If there was one righteous man in the city, would you spare it for his sake?

* * *

 

               “Jesus, Matt,” Foggy says, in way of greeting. “You look terrible. Were you here all night? I brought you some coffee—”

               Matt accepts the cup, feels the warmth on his fingers—smells the tainted water—

               “Thank you, Foggy,” he says, his voice ragged. “Thank you. You’ve always been a friend to me…”

               “Think nothing of it, buddy,” Foggy dismisses him, but Matt reaches up and laid a hand on his shoulder. He gives it a slow, meaningful squeeze.

               “God loves you, Foggy,” he said, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. “He smiled when he made you.”

               “Oh,” Foggy replies, “OK. That’s—thanks, Matt. That’s really sweet. Hey, you look pretty rough, do you maybe want to go home and go to bed?”

               “I have some things to take care of before I go home,” Matt said, distantly. “It could be a long time before I’m finished.” He swallowed back the words that threatened to pour out of him, and simply said:

               “Goodbye, Foggy.”

               “Oh, OK,” Foggy agrees, amiably. “See you later, Matt!”

               Matt forces himself to withdraw his hand, and walks stiffly down the hall. He doesn’t listen for Foggy’s heartbeat, for his footsteps or cheerful morning greetings.

               One foot in front of the other, he sets out on the path.

               He doesn’t turn back.

* * *

 

               Foggy and the other interns crowded around the TV in the breakroom, watching the news with open-mouthed horror. Live footage showed the Roxxon labs wreathed in fire, punctuated by the odd explosion as something lit and went up—

               “What do they think? Is it a terrorist?”

               “No one knows—too early to tell—”

               “They’re saying it looks like an accident—”

               Foggy gets out his phone and fires off a quick text— _Matt, r u seeing this?_

               No answer.

               A follow-up: _U kno what i mean_.

               The minutes ticked by, slow and agonizing, but there was no reply.

               “Matt has his phone turned off,” Foggy announced, “I don’t know if he knows what’s going on. Has anyone seen him?”

               “Not since—” Marci started, then stopped short. “Oh, my God…”

               “What?” Foggy asked. The other interns turned to each other, looking pale. “Since when?”

               “Since—” for once, Marci seemed like she was at a loss for words. “Foggy this morning—we needed some signatures—Matt volunteered to go out and do courier shit—”

               Foggy’s stomach dropped. “Where?” he asked, his blood running cold in his veins. “Where is he?”

               Wordlessly, Marci pointed to the TV—where another explosion tore through the building—

               “Oh my God,” Foggy whispered. He put a hand over his mouth. He thought he might pass out. He thought he might be sick. “Oh—oh my god—”

               “We don’t know that he made it over there,” someone was saying, faintly, “you know what traffic is like—”

               “He doesn’t—” Foggy’s mouth was moving, but his brain felt disconnected from the words—“he’s never been there before—he doesn’t know where the fire exits are—”

               “Foggy—”

               “They said they evacuated, he may be—”

               “He can’t see,” Foggy was saying, numbly. “He can’t—if the firefighters didn’t reach him—if nobody helped him—” he watched, in slow, icy horror, as the Roxxon building gave way and began to collapse in on itself.

               “Matt! Matt! Oh my God, _Matt_ —!”

* * *

 

               “Did you hear about Murdock—”

               “I can’t believe it—"

               “So much promise—”

               “So much potential—”

               “Of course Foggy is just _devastated_ —"

               “He’s organizing the funeral, its going to be a really nice service, very traditional—”

               “Just like Matt would have wanted, that’s so sweet and so sad—"

               “Just a crazy freak accident—”

               “Man, that kid was dealt a shitty hand—”

               “He made the most of it—”

               “He really was an example—”

               “Deliver him, O Lord, into your tender and loving embrace, grant him eternal rest—"

* * *

 

               It was nighttime, but the city was awake and howling. The distant sounds of wailing sirens were drowned out tonight by the klaxons surrounding the Roxxon labs—Matt could hear the last embers being quenched, the roar of water gushing from the hoses—water like rain—drowning the fire, subduing the last of his wrath, finally spent—

               For now—

               He had boxes and boxes of files hidden here and there, sequestered in buildings across Hell’s Kitchen; both abandoned and occupied. It would take him a long time to work through them alone, to find all the connections, tie up all the loose ends.

               The work before him was great. The city was riddled with disease, with rot, down to its very bones—

               _Run to and fro in the streets of Jerusalem_. _Look now and take note—search her squares to see—_

               There—a crash, a scream. Tinkling glass. Running—

               _If you can find a man—_

               Matt vaulted over an alleyway, the sounds of struggle were closer—

               _One who does justice and seeks the truth—_

               “Please! Somebody help!”

               _\--then I will forgive this city._

               Foggy would understand—he would have to. There is no such thing as a fight that couldn’t be won—there are only struggles, some that are brief, and some that take decades. Matt knew, from the day Foggy spun him a dream of their life together, that the war would come between them, that the fires they tended would burn towering walls of flame across their paths. The other world, the one Foggy saw, was on the other side of the war—within sight, but out of reach, a prize for a fight not yet won. Their reward would only come at the end of the Work.

               And for Matt, the work had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge shoutout to everyone who's stuck with the story-- this ended up being one of my favorite things I've written in a long time. 
> 
> I am a huge idiot who doesn't actually know what lawyers do, the two law class scenes are cribbed from these two youtube videos, respectively: https://youtu.be/In-swPraJPI and https://youtu.be/u9FDzeoT7SU. Thanks Professor Coughlin!! I hope you never learn what terrible thing I've wrought from your work! 
> 
> and because it wouldn't be a Marvel story without a stinger at the end of the credits: 
> 
> The offices were dark at the Daily Bugle. It was well into the early hours, and all the reporters had gone home.  
> All but one.  
> Ben Urich spread the photos across his desk—Matt Murdock in Columbia graduation robes, the burnt out remains of Roscoe Sweeney’s hideout, the Roxxon labs in flames. He smoothed down his collected articles—two obituaries, father and son, a tragic industrial accident, a press release on a runaway truck. Spilled chemicals, spilled blood. A life cut short.  
> The office was silent, but Ben looked over his shoulder before reaching inside his desk. He took two images, and laid them side-by-side on his tableau:  
> Matt Murdock on a roof, head cocked, as if he were listening intently—  
> And here, next to it—a blurry cell phone image: a man in black, a dark smear against New York’s perpetual twilight sky, one shadow among many.  
> Ben sat back in his chair. Here were the pieces, but he still couldn’t see the picture. He had his questions, but he didn’t have answers—  
> \-- not yet.


End file.
